


Contingency

by capncrystal



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Norgorber (Pathfinder), Original Character(s), golarion, pathfinder pantheon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capncrystal/pseuds/capncrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aren is shipwrecked and cut off from the empire he serves, he must make a choice: return, or use the sudden freedom to forge his own destiny?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shipwrecked

There had been a time, once, when Aren had swum in the ocean as a child.

The family went to a beachside town on business, and Aren's grandmother had slipped away with him to the seashore while the rest of the house slept. They built doll-sized dwellings in the sand, using twigs and shells and bugs as decoration and she had let him wade in the surf in the moonlight. She never impressed upon Aren the importance of keeping their adventure a secret, but he kept the knowledge like a treasure well past any time when he might have gotten in trouble over it.

Now, Aren found himself in the sea again, and with far less agency than before. He kicked hard with his legs to propel the shattered piece of ship's hull away from the wreck that was sinking with deceptive slowness beneath the waves. It would be next to impossible to get away once the majority of the wreck slipped below the waves and created a suction effect that would draw in all nearby debris. Aren had read a great deal about shipwrecks before setting out, and held as fast to the knowledge of what to expect as he pushed with all his might towards the distant darkness of the nearby shore.

Swimming in the ocean, he decided, was an uncomfortable hobby, without merit. There was salt dripping from his hair into his eyes and he was miserably cold. He could not see below the tumultuous surface of the water and thus had no idea what might be next to his legs, and everything he carried with him was surely ruined, if not by the water, than by the salt. His muscles burned with fatigue and his breath rasped through his throat in a fairly alarming way. This was not an ideal situation to be in and Aren found himself, on some level, missing the relative comfort of his cabin and wishing he could find a way to reverse time and luck. Penthel might have laughed at him, if Penthel wasn't unconscious on the piece of wood Aren was pushing, one hand curled around the bloody wound in his gut.

Aren swam hard for what seemed to be an eternity before he felt the sudden easing of resistance in the water, a change in current perhaps, or a shift in the level of the sea floor. The waves pulled him back still, true, but pushed him forward as well, and he found a rhythm between swimming and passive resistance that brought the shore closer by steady increments. The sky was beginning to light and he could see the outline of trees up past the beach. By the time his feet touched the sand, he was still waist deep in water and couldn't remember a time when his life was anything but this. He felt numb. A thought drifted from the fog of exhaustion in his mind: go far back, into the trees. Get far away from the water so that the tide won't come in and sweep you back out to sea.

Was it low tide? Aren realized he had no idea and, though he was sure there was a way to tell, the hows and whys escaped him. Penthel was unconscious on the impromptu raft, but was coughing, so he still lived. That was important, somehow. Aren found strength from somewhere to drag the raft along the sand, alternately pushing it in front of him and pulling it behind him until he stumbled on a fallen branch and scraped his forearms in the sandy grass. He blinked, and it was a slow realization that he had made it- the sky was lighter now, but there was nothing he could do about that, he had nothing left in him to build a shelter or find a way to hide them from sight.

Aren couldn't tell if it was cold outside, or if his body had simply been robbed of its warmth by the greedy sea. If he was cold, though, so was Penthel, and that was no way to sleep at all. Aren's cloak was gone, and would have been wet anyway and would have made a poor blanket for a dying man. Aren cast about for some semblance of wits, staring around him until his sluggish mind remembered a few important matters. First, he stripped all outer clothing from them both and did his best to hang it in the branches so that it could dry. He checked Penthel's wound, using his shirt to wipe it clean, then cast what small healing magic he could, feeling as he did the pain in his own body deepen and spread. His vision went dark around the edges, so he curled up next to Penthel and shared what little warmth he could offer as consciousness slipped away.

~

Waking came, as it always did, with no sluggish in-between mode, no drowsy confusion. One moment he was dead to the world, the next he was fully conscious, aware of how his forehead stuck to Penthel's bare shoulder and that, despite the magic he'd been able to perform last night before blacking out, the old man was shivering and sweating. Aren sat up, rolling his shoulder to alleviate the pins and needles he felt there, and took careful stock of his surroundings.

The sun was shining down without interruption from cloud or tree, upon a beach that stretched into the horizon in either direction. Debris from the wreckage of The Unknown Empress was floating in the surf, though it would take closer inspection to see if anything was usable. There were trees near the sand (though his knowledge failed to supply an answer as to the species of tree- deciduous, certainly, nearly bare in the winter morning, and not fruit bearing,) and scrubby grass and bushes. The ground was warm to his touch, and his clothes were, mercifully, untouched where he had hung them in the darkness.

Aren spent the next hour inspecting what he could pull from the surf. Most of it was little better than driftwood, though, and not even the few unbroken items that had washed up were immediately useful. He supposed that the rations and supplies that were packed away in floating, airtight barrels along the side of the ship were out there somewhere. One at least might have washed up along the shore somewhere, but if it had yet, it was further away than he cared to walk with Penthel in need of more immediate attention. The day was warm and thirst was burning Aren up alive with its insistence.

When he returned, Penthel was sitting up and pulling his torn and bloodied shirt back on. He spared Aren only a glance before reaching for his boots.

"Where do you think you're walking to, Gar?" Aren knelt, fussing with his own boots before leaning over to press the back of his hand to Penthel's forehead. The old man scowled at him but allowed the touch. His forehead was warm to the touch, and clammy; the old man was shivering as if still cold.

"I think perhaps I should try a spell again," Aren suggested. He spread his arms and began the necessary motions, ignoring the sharp ebb of his energy level and the baleful look his friend was giving him. With a mutter of holy words, Aren pressed his palm against the angry red smear in Penthel's abdomen and let the spell take effect. Penthel signed, pressing his own hand against Aren's, brow creasing. "I don't think it did much good," he sighed.

Aren pulled back, frowning. "We need water. Stay here and rest. I'll be back by sundown."

~

While the beach for miles was nothing but a sort of scrubby, sandy grassland, as one walked further inland the terrain became a sort of halfhearted forest of shamefully underdressed trees. There were enough of them to block his view and necessitate exploration, but none that would provide adequate cover if he met anyone unfriendly. His walk was pleasant enough despite this less than ideal situation, with occasional rustling in the leaves and brush from birds and other forest life fleeing his sudden presence. These small bits of evidence sealed, in his mind, the fact that there must indeed be fresh water nearby.

It was because Aren was listening so intently for water that he heard the bubbling of a different sound, the rise and fall of voices at a distance. He softened his footsteps as best he could and crept closer, making no sudden movements and keeping trees between him and his best guess about where the camp was. He made sure to glance up occasionally in case there were any scouts in the treetops. One could never be too careful.

The voices did indeed take on a familiar cadence as he got closer. A lilting tenor, talking quickly, answered by a slower and deeper voice, punctuated with laughter by a third voice further off. Some of the crew had survived, then. Aren moved as close as he dared, standing in a particularly dense group of foliage to observe. At the edge of camp, a dandy was emptying a cooking pot and scrubbing it out as a very handsome man with striking crimson skin stood over him with crossed arms, rather like an overseer. Behind them was a semblance of camp, bustling with fewer people than Aren had hoped but more than he had expected. He recognized Lucia conferring with her first mate, a muscular and intimidating undine. There were a few others around, too, that he recognized from the crew- a woman with sharp features reorganizing some baggage and her twin nearby working to repair what appeared to be a large piece of canvas. Best of all, he caught sight of two more familiar figures near the fire pit. A long, lanky young man was reclining against a large rock, peeling potatoes with an overacted delicacy while a very tall, matronly woman stacked logs of wood behind him.

A smile touched Aren’s face, unbidden. Seeing his own employees alive and well seemed to siphon off some anxiety he had not deigned to acknowledge, though he could not be sure yet whether they were with the crew willingly or if Lucia had taken them hostage. He cast about in front of him for an ideal path with some notion of stepping out into the open and making some noise, so that he wasn’t run though or shot before he could get a word out. The feeling of a sharp knife in the small of his back stopped him short.

“You’ll w-want to be real c-c-careful and s-slow, now,” A familiar voice breathed in his direction. Aren held his hands up, forcing himself to take a steady breath. He knew its owner, and knew the catch in his voice was deceptive. Nynnek would have no trouble shoving that knife into his spine.

“I have a sword on my left hip and a dagger in my right boot,” he responded with an even voice, waiting patiently as Nynnek removed his weapons. “I had another sword, as you recall,” he added, aiming for a light and offhand voice “but it seems to be underwater, now. Right next to my pride.”

“What, cos I s-snuck up on you?” How delightful, Aren thought, that the sneer that was always so evident on the rat man’s face was also clearly expressed in his voice. “Don’t be stupid. I t-t-tol’ you, I can s-sneak up on anyones.”

“And I commend you for the ability.” Nynnek gave the knife a nudge- thankfully a small one- and Aren began to walk, his empty hands still displayed in the open. He caught the attention of the closest two immediately and felt a pang of anxiety. The bright side, of course, to having an escort into camp was that nobody was yet reaching for their weapons. With that cheerful thought, he composed his expression into one rather more relaxed and confident than he truly felt and made his way, at knifepoint, into the pirates’ camp.

~

All conversation came to a standstill as they marched into camp. Laen stood quickly, sending his potatoes careening into the mud, and Lovelace put her hand on his shoulder to hold him back. Aren gave her a small and wry smile, noticing Laen’s shocked expression and her complete lack of one, before he turned his full attention on the only one in camp whose opinion truly mattered at the moment. There were a dozen things he might have done; perhaps a winning smile to put the pirate queen at ease, or a hangdog expression of sadness at the way he was currently being treated. Aren settled for a neutral expression. They were both agents of the Empress, after all, and lying to one another would accomplish nothing.

Lucia crossed her arms and lifted one eyebrow. “You see, Ghils. I told you sending out a scout was a good idea. You never know what kind of villains might be lurking around in the shadows.”

“There aren’t many shadows, ma’am,” Ghils replied blankly. “it’s noon.”

Lucia ignored him and strode over to Aren, coat and gold-banded braids billowing behind her. Aren stood very still, allowing her this dramatic moment without participating. He refused to play the pathetic victim, though he held out hope for a role as the villainous coconspirator. She stalked around him, looking at him from every angle, finally standing before him and touched her chin in thought.“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” She finally demanded.

“I suppose I should say thank you for taking care of my friends,” he responded with a faint smile. “Although I suppose it’s the least you could have done after crashing your boat with us in it.”

“How the HELL did you survive?!” Lucia demanded, but it was no use; he’d made her laugh. Nynnek stepped back and Aren sighed in relief.

“It was rather difficult,” he admitted, glancing down and back up, a rueful twist to his mouth. “Penthel was badly injured. I managed to get us ashore, but I’m afraid he can’t walk at all. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to borrow Lovelace and fetch him to camp.”

Lucia gave a hand signal and her crew began to carry on with their prior duties, though not without sneaking suspicious glances at him. He felt, rather than saw, Laen moving closer and turned to face the boy, not expecting the overly enthusiastic embrace that nearly bowled him over. Aren caught his balance and brought a hand to Laen’s hair, giving Lovelace an amused look over the half-elf’s shoulder. She, in turn, rolled her eyes and shrugged expansively. Aren glanced over at Lucia, who was looking at them curiously; he supposed that she had never seen this less than decorous side of him before.

“I’m so happy you’re alive!” Laen murmured into his shoulder, then pulled away, looking up at his face. After a tense moment of staring hungrily at Aren, with Aren staring nonplussed back at his excitable companion, Laen hugged him tightly again, babbling some nonsense nobody could make out against his chest.

Aren raised an eyebrow at Lucia, fighting hard to keep his face serious. She snorted, waiting for their little reunion to finish even though it was clear that her patience was wearing thin. Finally Lovelace walked over and pulled Laen off, gently pushing him back to his work as if he was a child that needed direction. She squeezed Aren’s shoulder and they shared a smile before she, too, left him to charm his way out of trouble.

Aren glanced warily at the blank-faced undine standing next to Lucia, but she waved his concerns away. “Ghils knows my business as well as I do. He can hear what you’ve got to say.” Aren conceded the matter with a small bow before growing serious.

“What happened, Lucia? What sunk us?”

Lucia frowned and fingered a pistol in her belt- a nervous habit, he hoped, and not meant to be a threat against him. “I’m not rightly sure, and that bothers me a hell of a lot,” She replied grimly. “What did you see?”

“A lot of light,” he replied promptly, “right as the ship seemed to explode. I didn’t have much time to examine the cause of the light, whether it was magical in nature or the result of an explosion. I barely got away with my life, and much of that I owe to my friend.”

“The old guy, right?” She asked, and continued speaking without waiting for an answer “I saw some light too, but it was before the explosion. Seemed like it was raining lights, then it got a lot brighter and my ship busted at the seams. It was only we as were topside on the stern got away, excepting for you. Now I wonder if anyone else managed to swim for it.”

“It would be miraculous,” Aren admitted. “Though perhaps I am biased, as I find dry land to be much easier to travel.”

Lucia’s face grew cunning. “Can you contact the empress?” When he gave in response a cautiously blank look, she raised an eyebrow. “C’mon, I know she gave you a device to communicate with her. I saw it.”

He managed a noncommittal hum, thinking fast on how to phrase his reply. “Any such device, if I had one,” he said slowly, “would now be at the bottom of the ocean.” Her disappointment, he noted, looked very nearly murderous. He paused a moment, then added “Please do believe that I want to contact her as much as you do. I have reports to send, and my own employees to check up on. I can make an attempt to scry the kingdom and send a long distance message that way, but that particular spell requires full dark and some modicum of privacy to work.” Lucia turned and spat on the sand, huffing angrily.

“In the meantime,” he said as delicately as he could manage, “my concentration will improve if I am no longer worrying about my friend. Do I have your leave to fetch him?” It was interesting to note that he was nervous about her response. The last thing he wanted was to lose the friendship of such a formidable woman, but it was unusual for him to travel with someone so powerful whose loyalty was so thoroughly dedicated to another. Truly, her response right now would set the stage for all their future interactions. If she decided it was in the Empress’ best interests to do away with him entirely, he doubted there was much he could do about the matter.

“Yeah, alright. We can go get him.” Lucia spun on her heel and waved at Asadin, already setting things in motion while Aren remained still, taken aback.

“Oh…” He glanced helplessly at Ghils, though the Undine gave no indication if he noticed that Aren existed. “We?”


	2. Sacrifice

“So, this friend of yours,” Lucia began as they walked to the beach. “You known him long?”

Aren kept a thoughtful silence, keenly aware of Lovelace behind them, and more importantly, Asadin bringing up the rear. He glanced at Lucia and sighed softly, weighing each word before speaking. “He is my oldest friend.” Lucia startled him by barking out a laugh and he gave her his full attention, assembling his face into a puzzled look.

“Well he’s old, inee?” She sniggered at him and moved on ahead, swaggering with confidence and humor. Aren kept his more sedate pace, staring at her back with something like despair.

The silence after that lasted longer than he expected. He matched Lucia’s pace again once they caught sight of the beach.

“So what happened to him?” She asked in an offhand manner, as if the answer didn’t matter even a little bit. He jumped down from a log, striding ahead. “The hull exploded,” he responded shortly. “He was pierced with the shrapnel. I’m sure the ocean water didn’t help matters.”

“Well that’s a shitty way to go.”

“He’s still alive,” and to his regret Aren’s tone rang out far more sharply than he’d intended. He hurried on ahead of the others, grinding his teeth and forcing himself to breathe evenly.

There was a circle of stones around a small but merry fire, and Penthel was huddled up against a rock, wrapped in his own short cape like a burrito. The sand sprayed under his feet until he sank to his knees beside the older man and pressed his hand to his forehead. The heat there felt like a punch to the gut; Aren exhaled hard and pulled gently at his cape until Penthel was more exposed. The bleeding had stopped but there was a smell like spoiled meat and Penthel’s breathing was erratic, at best. Aren didn’t realize his own breathing had stopped entirely until he realized the sand was spinning beneath him.

Lovelace knelt beside him and held a water skin to Penthel’s lips, coaxing the liquid in. Aren closed his eyes and concentrated, summoning his magic for a healing spell, but was stopped at the first word by a hand on his wrist. Lovelace shook her head at him, dark eyes gentle. She rose and walked slowly back towards the waiting pirates, sand crunching beneath her boots. It seemed like she took what remained of Aren’s hopes with her.

~

Penthel coughed when he was cradled to Aren’s chest, stirring to get into a more comfortable position. “Took you long enough,” he rasped, pulling the cloak closer around him again.

“Sorry, Gareth. I had to talk my way out of getting stabbed.” Aren smiled ruefully when Penthel looked up and glared at him with watery eyes. “You gettin’ clumsy on me, boy? After all that trouble I went through trainin’ you?”

Aren bit back a laugh. “I guess so. Come back to camp and you can beat some more stealth into me.”

Penthel scoffed and sank back down. “You highborn sods never learn your lessons right unless they come out of a book.” He seized up in pain for a moment, then eased back into Aren again, resting his head on the younger man’s shoulder. “You know I ain’t makin it to any camp, kiddo.” “If we had a hospital nearby-” “Well we don’t. Shut up and listen.”

Aren stirred, fighting off powerful waves of emotion. Penthel, sitting with his back to Aren’s chest, glared out at the sea. “Take what you can off me, once I go. Take my ring, too, and make sure it gets back to my wife. I don’t care what oaths you have to break, boy, you take care of her.”

“I know,” Aren replied with a soft murmer. Penthel nodded, chin jutting. “You and I serve the same god, and we might be the only ones for miles around who do. I don’t want to die, but I know he ain’t a god of healin’, so I’m not holding out for any last-minute miracles either.” He paused again, wheezing alarmingly. It took stern self-control not to react, to do anything in his power to ease his friend’s pain. Finally, Penthel continued. “I want to be useful in my last moments, kid. I need you to step up now and make my death worth something to him.”

“Gar, I don’t think it works that way-” Aren begun, but Penthel cut him off with a sharp gesture and another round of coughing. This time, there were flecks of blood on his hand when he finished. “I’m dying anyway, so I’m a piss-poor sacrifice, but there’s no reason your victims can’t know who they serve and go willingly. It’s the energy released that matters, and the mournin’ that follows.”

“It will be my mourning that he feasts on, then.” The early afternoon sun shone brightly, and Aren wished to hell that a black void would open up in the sky and devour them all. He understood his friend’s wishes, and the theory behind them was sound. It must, then, be the residual goodness in him causing this weakness, this resistance to what he knew was a perfectly logical and practical idea.

“That’s one of the secrets to bein’ a high priest, kid. You gotta mourn, too. You gotta know what all that suffering you cause feels like.” Gar laughed without humor, or perhaps it was a cough too weak to properly clear his throat. “Helps you appreciate the sacrifice.”

Aren took a deep, steadying breath before nodding. “Fine, then. Just let me get us some privacy.”

He rose carefully and picked his way over to Lucia, ignoring the mildly disgusted look she gave him as he came closer. He knew that mourning had already begun to set itself into his heart, numbing his emotions; he might care, later, that he had given such a show of naked emotion, but right now there was nothing in him that was capable of giving a shit.

“He’s past healing,” he managed to say past the lump in his throat. “Head back to camp if you want. I’ll clean up and join you there later.”

“Not a chance,” she countered, crossing her arms. Amazing- he really was still capable of emotion, although frustration would not have been his first choice of things to feel.

“Please, Lucia.” The sun was uncomfortable at this time of day and sweat was beading down his throat. There were flies buzzing nearby, and the minor disgust he always felt at such unclean environments nearly overwhelmed him. He pushed past it and accepted her stubbornness, changing tacks. “At least give us some privacy.” Thankfully, she conceded the matter with a shrug and left him behind, wandering into the nearest patch of shade. Asadin and Lovelace followed, the former glancing at him curiously with glowing orange eyes as he passed and the latter walking past with her usual gravitas.

~

Though it felt like hours had passed, Aren discovered later that it had only taken an hour to murder his best friend and push his body into the sea.

He had walked into the waves again, letting the seawater soak into his clothes and rinse the blood from them, leaving him covered in a thin film of salt and sea grime. He walked to the trees shrouded in a mental fog and let Lovelace drape an arm around him, guiding him back to camp when he couldn’t pay attention to where his own feet let him. Once they arrived, she sat him down on a log and let him stew for a while, bringing him tea and sitting with him in silence. For a while, she covered his hand in her own. He felt the texture of the callouses on her hand, but it meant nothing.

The sun was still shining when she rose and left him alone to his thoughts.


	3. Discourse

Shadows from the wintry trees were stretching across the camp when Aren’s mourning was rudely interrupted.

“Alright, we need to have a nice lil’ chat.” Lucia sat down on the log next to him and slapped an unmarked bottle of some dreadful-looking swill firmly into the sand between them. Aren dragged himself from the mire his thoughts were stuck in and looked at her, dimly aware that he probably looked like some pathetic old dog. She glared right back at him, either not noticing or not caring.

“So, your eyes. They’re weird. Asadin says you aren’t a tiefling so what the fuck happened there?”

Well, that was enough to snap him out of his funk. Aren straightened his back and looked at her with wide, black, pupilless eyes, alarm fluttering from his breast to his stomach. He had to swallow before he could speak, and even then, his voice was not as even as it could be. “He can see that, can he?”

Lucia scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. Do I look like I give a damn about pure human heritage? You’ve seen my crew o’ misfits. I just want the story, spook, so dish.” She pointed firmly at the bottle and glared at him. “Also, drink. I’m sick of your moping.” He stared at her, and she glared at him, and they continued that way until Aren signed and reached for the bottle.

He toyed with the wax seal for a moment, pretending he was wrestling with how to open it when really he was wrestling with words and beginnings. “As much as I would like to say that I never intended to deceive you about my nature,” he began slowly, “I’m afraid that deception is an integral part of said nature.” The seal popped off and the fumes that emanated made his eyes water. He wondered how long he could avoid taking a sip of the vile brew under the pretense of letting it breathe. “I prefer to pass unnoticed through the world. However, my appearance tends to attract attention wherever I go.”

Lucia leaned forward and glared at him intently until he found the courage to peek back up at her. She looked pointedly at the bottle, then at him, and he signed. So much for procrastination. He touched it to his lips, eyes screwed tight, and drank it like an unpleasant medicine. Honestly, the things he did for beautiful pirate queens.

It tasted like paint thinner and went down like poison.

After only a small bout of coughing, he bravely pressed on with his explanation. “Because of the nature of my business, I find it useful to wear a disguise wherever I go.” He forced himself to take another sip, hoping that he wouldn’t be forced to drink the entire bottle alone. There were some poisons even he couldn’t survive, even if the second drink did go down a bit easier than the first.

“Didn’t you have, um.” Lucia made a sort of circular gesture with two fingers at her own face, eyebrows drawn up in a question. It was interesting, Aren noted, that her face retained its full expressiveness despite the scars that marred it. Her eyebrows were raised in question without so much as a pulling or twinging that he could detect.

“Mm,” Aren smiled, looking down briefly before his observations took long enough to become obvious and therefore rude. “My glasses, yes. Out of all that I lost in the wreck, I think I miss those the most. They were indescribably useful.” He felt the prickle of a headache beginning and rubbed his temple, sighing. The glasses had been incredibly expensive- wrought of finely-crafted gold and endowed with a minor illusion spell. All his clever mannerisms were next to useless without them once most people saw his face; he was marked as nonhuman, sure as any other halfbreed out there. There were tells, of course, besides his eyes, but he counted himself incredibly lucky that such tells were subtle enough to cheaply disguise. Pale skin could be marred with facial hair and, when necessary, cosmetics or dirt; hair that shone like a gemstone mattered little when its natural color was black, and didn’t stand out at all under dye to keep it matte. Layers of dull-colored clothing obscured the rest, allowing him to blend into the background of human affairs as well as any servant.

Lucia took the bottle from his fingers without resistance and took a hearty swig, punctuating her next statement with a hearty belch. “Yeah, I guess for someone who looks like you, they would be.”

“Well hold on, now,” Aren protested mildly. “I like to think I’m a very handsome individual.” He took the bottle back from her hand and sipped from it, resisting the temptation to maintain eye contact throughout. He was not yet drunk, and so was still rather above such childishly aggressive behavior. Besides, Lucia could easily take him in a fight.

She seemed amused, though quietly so, for her- grinning at him, as if he had said something funny. Well. That was just doing wonders for his pride. “So you were, what, cursed?” The drink seemed to be making her boneless and lazy, and if he was even remotely tempted to lustful thoughts he would find it terribly becoming.

“Oh, heavens, no.” Aren handed back the bottle and turned to face her. “I was born this way. Perhaps the shade of my eyes and hair have darkened a bit… well, a lot, really. But it was always quite obvious what species I am.”

“Okay?” Lucia took a swig and firmly handed it back. No escape, then. “So what are ye?”

Aren lifted his chin and eyebrows, giving her the haughtiest look he could summon. “Not human.” The sour look on her face was a memory he would treasure forever.

They passed a bit of time in a companionable silence, killing off more of the evil swill Lucia had insisted upon opening. Aren drifted for a while, thinking about the far past and all the roads he had taken that led him here. He kept his personal history a well-guarded secret as a matter of course, preferring anonymity over the fame that his family history could easily grant him. Lucia was a tentative ally at best. If she learned his story, it could open him up to blackmail and exploitation well beyond what she already had on him, but it could also shift her firmly onto his side. It could, possibly, make them friends as well as allies, and he thought he would rather like to have a pirate queen as a friend. It would be like having a secret weapon at his disposal.

It was amusing to him that they had met at all. He had experience and connections that could greatly benefit Lucia, and he honestly didn’t think that his particular religious leanings would unduly disturb her, once she became accustomed to the knowledge. Had he not been dedicated already, he might have offered her his loyalty a long time ago.

Still, Pharasma had rolled her dice and set their loyalties against each other before they ever met. There was a part of Aren that still wished to go back in time and change fate, a part of him that always wished for an easier time of things. A part that Penthel had tried hard to erase. For his sake, Aren made a conscious effort to stop wishing and turn his current situation to his advantage. It went against his nature to reveal his own secrets, but he would not hamper whatever investigations Lucia made, nor would he lie to her. She might be the only one alive who held that privilege.

“We should discuss where to go from here,” he suggested, shifting to get more comfortable. His face felt warm, and he attributed it to the weather. The afternoon had gotten surprisingly warm.

Lucia rubbed her temple, right next to the rat’s nest of scars that made her face so interesting to behold- honestly, he could watch her for hours and still find delightful little details that eluded more casual looks- and the gold and turquoise magitek eye that glared unnervingly from its fleshy socket. “Yeah, alright. You said you can send a message home.”

“I said I can attempt to scry our home once it gets dark. I may be able to communicate with her if the spell takes hold. However…” he looked at the sand, thinking about the different techniques he would employ in trying to view the paranoid and highly secretive leader of a kingdom that was hidden like a jewel in an inhospitable land and protected by layers of spells, some of which he had helped set up, to protect it from exactly the attempt he was going to make tonight.

It took Lucia snapping under his nose to make him realize he had stopped speaking entirely and retreated into thought.

“My apologies.” He gave her the smallest of bows and took a swig of rum, rather enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. There was something like a fire in his belly now, but it was not unpleasant. If anything, he was relaxed and comfortable. “The spell is easy enough, but our little empire is well protected against such matters. My challenge is to seek a loophole, a chink in the armor… oh.” He sat up suddenly and looked up at her good eye, a sudden insight breaking into his thoughts. “Oh, but- Lucia, it might not be any use at all.”

Dread prickled under his skin and this time it had nothing to do with the absolutely terrifying glare of the pirate queen in front of him. “What do you mean?” She growled, a hand dropping to her firearm, thumb caressing the strap that kept it in place.

“The device you mentioned- yes, yes, I had one, and it really is at the bottom of the sea now-” Aren felt breathless, words spilling out of him faster than he normally allowed. “Lucia, I was trying to send a message when the ship crashed. It wasn’t going through, and I didn’t think anything of it because everything went to hell all at once, but- Lucia-” he caught his breath, eyes burning with intensity, “I think my message was blocked.”

Lucia looked as if she had no patience at all to listen to the significance of his very important insight. “So what does that mean, then?” She demanded, loosening her gun in its secure harness.

“I don’t know yet. Either she blocked it intentionally, or something else is interfering with my communications spells. Can you KINDLY put that thing away? You’re making me nervous.”

Lucia scoffed but reholstered her pistol, standing so that she could pace. “Do you think whatever blocked your spell sank my ship?”

Aren sighed. “I fear that, yes. It’s too early to tell.” He looked at his hands, falling into the dirty creases with a singleminded intensity, focusing on the texture of his skin so that his thoughts could line up like good ducklings. They didn’t seem to want to obey him, which was uncommonly rude of them. He finally stopped bothering when Lucia kneeled heavily in front of him, glaring into his face so hard he thought he might actually catch on fire.

“Darling,” he admitted, “I’ve grown a bit drunk.”

“No shit.”

The absurdity of the situation struck him then, and he was hard pressed not to giggle. Instead, he scooted down to sit on the sand and leaned back into the unforgiving embrace of the log he’d been sitting on. “It’s hours yet until sundown. I’ve got plenty of time yet to wallow before getting down to business.”

Lucia crouched and grabbed his chin, none too gently. “Tell me,” she said with steel in her voice, “exactly what it is you’re going to do. I don’t want surprises.”

Aren sat up a bit, gazing back at her before brushing her hand away. He kept eye contact, though, and rallied his thoughts to the working plan. “I need to renew my spells,” he began, “which means I need to pray. Once I finish that little ritual, I can use some of those spells to try to contact the empress. What about any of that is unclear?”

“The part where you haven’t exactly said who it is you pray to,” she retorted.

“Darling,” he laughed, then immediately backtracked at her expression. “Lucia,” he started again with a clearing of his throat and a tone of gentle rebuke, “you and I both know we’re past the point where we can pretend you don’t know who it is I serve.”

“Are you gonna keep performin’ verbal acrobatics,” she asked conversationally, tilting her head, “or are you gonna answer the fucking question?” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her fingers playing on the handle of her gun again.

“I’ve nothing left to hide from you, captain. If I talk in riddles it’s because I trust you’re more than capable of working them out.” He let his gaze drift down her face before meeting her good eye again, doing his best to write an open and rueful expression on his face. “The Reaper of Reputations does not have an open worship anywhere. In most of the known lands, it will get you killed; at best, it makes people uncomfortable to know there is a ‘cultist’ among them.” His voice stumbled on a laugh at that word, and though air quotations were beneath him, he felt she’d taken his meaning. “I call him the Benefactor, sometimes; I know you’ve heard me murmer that word on occasion. It keeps the issue ambiguous. If He minds, He has yet to rebuke me over it.”

He saw the shudder she couldn’t quite repress, and it pleased him a bit. “So now you know my dirty little secret,” he gloated. Her glare was quick, vicious, and over quickly. She rose from her crouch and stepped away him him, revulsion getting the better of her (though he suspected she would deny it, to save face).

“Please,” she scoffed, though her back was turned to him so he couldn’t read her expression. “Yer a skinny academic. Nobody’s gonna be afraid of a spook like you.” They both knew it was a lie, but he let it pass unchallenged, clumsy as it was compared to the ones he had breathed in his time.

A long moment passed between them before she turned and glanced down at him. “Get your shit together before nightfall,” she advised. “I won’t have my crew thinkin’ yer a sloppy drunk.” She was gone without waiting for an answer, and Aren watched the unsubtle sway of her hips as she went and the play of dappled sunlight over the dark skin of her arms. There were few people who made him wish he indulged in the creature comforts of humanity. Had his chemistry been different-

Regrets over his own nature, however, were few and far between for Aren and he quickly fell back into the cold comfort of planning for what was to come.


End file.
